


Falling in Love with the Right Now (Poster Boy)

by akaparalian



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Gen, Hot Kallus Day, Pre-Slash, Propaganda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 16:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14085045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaparalian/pseuds/akaparalian
Summary: Somewhere out there in the galaxy, there's a rebel propaganda artist who deserves a raise.





	Falling in Love with the Right Now (Poster Boy)

**Author's Note:**

> Twitter says it's Hot Kallus Day, so, happy Hot Kallus Day! This is just a silly lil' thing I threw together for the occasion.
> 
> I'll leave it to your discretion, reader, as to whether this takes place somewhere between seasons 3 and 4, or in some nebulous everybody lives/is OK/is still together AU. I'm just here for the goofs.
> 
> Aaaand, thank you to the Back Street Boys for the title. (I'm living my truth.)
> 
> EDIT: A million billion thank-yous to [stitchy,](http://stitchyarts.tumblr.com/) whom I commissioned to draw The Poster In Question, and who did a PHENOMENAL job! It's below, or [here](https://floralegia.tumblr.com/post/173215009939/i-commissioned-stitchyarts-to-draw-the-hot-kallus) on Tumblr!

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me.”

Alexsandr could hardly hear himself think over the sound of Ezra Bridger _howling_ with laughter, but that certainly wasn’t going to stop him from protesting.

“I did _not_ consent to this!”

“Come on,” Bridger managed, somehow, through gales of laughter so intense it sounded like he was choking on it. Alexsandr half hoped he would. “You look _good_!”

He wasn’t sure whether to tear out his hair or scream; he settled for burying his head in his hands and growling, “That’s more or less the last thing I want to hear from _you_.”

“It’s not really you,” General Syndulla pointed out in a soothing voice, as though she were trying to calm a frightened Loth-cat. The aptness of that comparison was among the least of Alexsandr’s current worries. “Clearly the artist drew inspiration, but the details…”

“Hera, please,” Alexsandr said, still muffled into his hands, because even when he was this upset he knew she’d hit him for calling her ‘General’ to her face. “It’s definitely meant to be me.”

And it most certainly was: the… _monstrosity_ which now stood on the wall in the main cabin of the _Ghost_ , courtesy of one young Jabba the Hutt and the source of his endless entertainment, was absolutely intended as a depiction of him. One might consider it to be an artistically rendered recruitment poster, if one were feeling charitable, which Alexsandr most certainly was not. He — or his facsimile, at least — stood against a dark background, backlit, tearing off a battered Imperial uniform to reveal rebel gear underneath. His pose was — and he deeply, deeply regretted that this was the only possible word to describe it — downright seductive, with a rakish smirk only amplified by the way little locks of hair fell to frame his face. There were muscles bulging in his arms as he ripped the fabric that he was almost certain humans didn’t actually _have_.

Really, he supposed he should just be grateful the artist hadn’t decided to go one layer of clothing lower.

Beneath him, in a bold orange, were the words “Join the Fight,” with the familiar logo of the Rebel Alliance taking the place of the ‘o.’

_Art by[stitchy!](http://stitchyarts.tumblr.com/)_

“I’m going to need some descriptive audio, here,” Kanan said, when Hera could do little more than shrug a little sheepishly given that Alexsandr was, of course, correct; there was no one else it could _possibly_ be.

“It’s…” she said hesitantly, eyeing Alexsandr as though afraid he’d explode, “...a recruitment poster?”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Alexsandr muttered.

Kanan, though, seemed to understand — though between Ezra’s laughter (which, while it was steadily growing quieter, still hadn’t subsided, and had him actually rolling around on the floor and wheezing at this point) and Alexsandr’s flustered rage, it was probably relatively obvious more or less what was going on. He clapped Alexsandr on the shoulder.

“I’ve been there,” he said wryly. “Don’t worry. Ezra _will_ get over it, eventually. I promise.”

“Doesn’t look like that at the moment,” Alexsandr said, but even in his current state, he appreciated Kanan’s solidarity. And he had to admit, as he glanced speculatively between the poster and the Jedi, that he could see the appeal there — purely as a recruitment tactic, of course. Besides, the mental image _did_ help soothe his ruffled feathers, if only the tiniest bit. 

The cabin lapsed into silence, broken only by the occasional chuckle from Ezra’s position on the floor, during which time Alexsandr continued to lament a) the existence of the poster, b) his decision to take up with the Rebels in the first place, c) and his life in general, in roughly that order. Hera, evidently having had enough of this nonsense, wandered off; no doubt she was on her way to go check on Chopper in the cockpit and/or to make sure that Ezra hadn’t made any _other_ changes to the _Ghost_ ’s decor. She pressed a brief kiss to Kanan’s head as she passed. Kanan smiled after her, then idly kicked at Ezra, who rolled over and swatted lazily at his master’s foot in self-defense.

And then Ezra froze, which was precisely when Alexsandr knew things were about to get impossibly, unbelievably worse.

“Come on, that’s enough,” Kanan told his padawan firmly, but with good humor, blissfully unaware of the expression of pure mischievous delight which was spreading across Ezra’s face, complete with shit-eating grin and manic eyes.

“Hi, Zeb,” he said brightly, his voice perfectly innocent. “Didn’t see you there.”

Alexsandr shut his eyes and silently prayed for death.

No one moved or said a word or even breathed for a heavy moment; the entire universe felt for an instant as though it had simply stopped, and Alexsandr would have positively _wept_ with gratitude if that were true, or if perhaps he had suddenly fallen through the floor and disappeared forever.

“I just got here,” Zeb said, shattering the moment and dashing all of Alexsandr’s dreams of a sudden, merciful demise. He sounded strangled, as though it were a fight to push out each individual word, much less form a coherent sentence.

“Did you see the poster?” Ezra chirruped, playing the role of youthful innocence incredibly poorly, as he was still unable to mask the absolute evil in his eyes.

Zeb made a noise which may have been intended as a _yes_ , but mostly just sounded like someone had stepped on him. 

“Ezra?” Kanan said, very mildly.

“Yeah?”

“You might want to start running.”

Ezra was very lucky his master had better instincts than he did, because Alexsandr was already diving for him; if _he_ couldn’t die to escape this horrifying situation, he could at least take out the source of all the trouble.

The kid was quicker, younger, and more spry than him, though, so Alexsandr’s attempt at murder left him with nothing but an empty patch of floor where Ezra had once been and the sound of his shrieking laughter disappearing down the corridor. He considered giving chase for about two seconds, before giving up and leaning back against the wall, his head hitting the durasteel with a _thunk_ that could probably be heard all the way to Coruscant.

Kanan, in his infinite wisdom, made himself scarce with much more grace than Ezra had, slipping away silently, though Alexsandr could see the way he was smiling to himself and shaking his head. Traitors, all of them, every single person on this ship. _Traitors_.

That left just him and Zeb, who still didn’t seem quite capable of speech; when Alexsandr risked a glance at him, he was just standing there, mouth slightly open, staring wide-eyed at the poster. Upon several seconds of observation, Alexsandr determined that he appeared to have gone an unhealthy amount of time without blinking. 

Years of training at the academy, well over a decade of service in the most feared intelligence agency in the galaxy, experience commanding entire Star Destroyers, and a track record already as long as his arm of skillfully twisting Imperial intelligence and protocols to serve the Rebel Alliance — and in that moment, Alexsandr hadn’t the slightest clue what to say.

Zeb, actually, ended up being the one to speak first. If Alexsandr’s brain were capable of processing any further embarrassment, this detail might have made the list.

“It’s,” Zeb started, then coughed, and when he tried again, he at least sounded less like he’d tried to swallow a bantha: “It’s, uh… a good likeness. They really got your eyes.”

Said eyes — Alexsandr re-checked the poster in his peripheral vision to confirm — were displaying what a weaker, less impartial being might call a come-hither stare. Alexsandr felt distinctly as though someone had punched him in the gut — and, stars, had it always been so hot in this room?

“You… you really think so?” he managed, in a far squeakier, less-dignified corollary to his normal speaking voice. Damn it all, he was acting like a _teenager_. Ezra Bridger could probably handle himself better than this.

Well. Maybe.

“Yeah, absolutely,” Zeb said, just a little too quickly, and their eyes locked, Alexsandr staring up from the ground and Zeb looking down at him with — kriff, was he _blushing_? Was that what the darkening in his cheeks was? Alexsandr hadn’t even known Lasats _could_ blush, especially not under the fur. This day, he decided firmly yet dazedly, was entirely _too much_ , and he would like it to please consider stopping.

Finally, Zeb looked away, rubbing a hand against the back of his head and staring down at his toes. 

“As — as much as I like it,” he said, voice cracking, which Alexsandr hardly even noticed because his entire brain was busy short-circuiting over the idea that Zeb ‘ _liked’_ the poster, “we should probably take it down. I mean, uh — not like it’s convincing anyone to join up while it’s hanging in here, right?” He laughed, entirely unconvincingly.

Alexsandr could have melted with relief. He clambered to his feet, wincing slightly as his bad leg protested the movement. “That is an _excellent_ idea. I know _just_ the garbage compactor —”

“No, no, uh, I’ll take care of it,” Zeb said hastily, dodging in front of Alexsandr to block his way to the poster. He coughed. “I’m sure you’re, er, too busy to bother with stuff like this.”

Alexsandr hesitated. There were a lot of ways he could have refuted that statement. For one thing, he was certain Zeb was no less busy than he was.

And for another, he _really_ wanted to personally oversee the poster’s destruction — ideally with some form of immolation, explosion, disintegration, or other dramatic methodology, but even the garbage compactor would do.

Still… at least the poster would be gone. That was what mattered, wasn’t it? 

“All right,” he said, though somewhat reluctantly. “Thank you for… taking care of it.”

And he turned to leave, glad he wouldn’t have to worry about seeing that horrid thing again, and pointedly not noticing the way Zeb echoed, “Yeah, I’ll _take care_ of it,” under his breath as he left the room. 


End file.
